Mute
by dizzygirl464
Summary: It's easy to enter the mind of a criminal if you are practiced enough. But what happens when the criminal attacks your family? Can you bear to enter the twisted mind? The team are faced with an unanswerable question. Why me?


Eyes set slightly too wide apart, full, red mouth stretching across the cheeks like a gash in flesh. All the features were rather large, though, and suited the striking face. Thick, dark eyebrows arched haughtily over the heavily lashed lids. A small but wide upturned nose balanced the proportions. High cheek-bones accentuated with a subtle brush of blush. Hair; dark. Curled and resting on the shoulders. She would have been very attractive, if not for one thing. The opening across her forehead.

The jagged edges of the wound resembled a chasm Mac had once observed whilst investigating the Grand Canyon with Clare. There was a rapid change of hue, like a bleeding watercolour, from red to black as his eyes drew deeper into the trauma, though he could just make out a gleam of white from the skull.

He pulled back to observe the scene again fully. She was sat upright, an example of perfect posture. Her shoulders were back, the blades close to meeting at her spine as though pulled by an invisible string, making Mac think of a puppet-master. Throughout his years as one of New York's finest he'd witnessed his fair share of men believing they held more power than was necessary, finding entertainment, if not glory from controlling and abetting the movements of others. A brief inquiry wandered across his mind, a mind of constant activity, as to if this was another example of man's immutable quest for dominance and power.

No doubt the presentation had been staged, but there were multitudinous explanations for the motivation. But this - discovering the incentive - was his job. This was why he was here. Of course, it was his purpose to collect evidence that could be used to prove the villains guilt as well as give an indication to the identity, but one of the myriad of reasons as to Mac's success in his occupation was his ability to enter the mind of the culprit; to think as them and apprehend their commission.

"What are you thinking?' Don Flack, Mac's long-trusted colleague and friend advanced from his previous position at the notorious yellow crime scene tape. He knew not to interrupt Mac's thoughts until the scene and surrounding area had been processed into order. He often found the process rather disquieting; the quiescence of the motion, the almost supernatural ability to perceive what others would miss Taylor possessed, but such was his admiration of the man he deemed to be an acquired father representative who easily diverged in to the place of the man who'd been nothing more than a disappointment, that he just observed the moment, recognizing what he was able to witness was something not often seen.

"The scene is obviously staged,' Mac began to verbalize his initial analysis, gesturing to the chair in which the victim had been apprehended, 'although as to whether she was a cohort in the event to begin with or not I can't be sure.' He spoke slowly, as though each fact and resulting conclusion was being filed into the unfathomable expanses of his brain.

"The wound itself seems like the culminating deed of whatever situation was taking place here. It's the crescendo of the visual action, as though our perp was building up to this moment. No hesitation marks suggest this was planned, with no regrets.'

'Do you want me to call Sid? He should be here by now...' Don turned to request the use of a mobile having left his at his desk after a brief flick of his sleeve to observe the smooth face of his watch.

'It's fine-' Mac held up his gloved hand with a grateful nod. 'I'll call him on my way back from the car, I need to be getting to Lindsey's.'

'Today's the day, hey?' Don Flack couldn't contain his smile of genuine anticipation and pleasure. 'Our little Louie's growing up.' He ran his hands through his hair unconsciously, which then returned back to his badge, where is rested on his hip.

Mac nodded, a brief flick of his lip acknowledgment of his pride, before pulling his gloves of expertly and folding them in his steel crime scene case. He never disposed of them at a scene out of habit. He didn't know who would pick them up, and couldn't trust their immediate eradication. Fingerprints remained, and when you are as successful a man at apprehending criminals, it was a risk Mac wasn't comfortable taking.

He pulled out his cell-phone, dialing in a number with his now uncovered hands.

'This is Lindsey.'

'Lindsey, it's Mac. I'm on my way.' He indicated his appreciation of the officers manning the area with a brief salute as he left the area.

'Thank you so much for this,' she murmured, clearly averse to her husband overhearing her words. 'This means so much to Danny, and to me. Now Lucy's a bit older we thought it was the right time. I-'

Mac lifted his head up from the wheel, where he was adjusting his position in the car, as silence filled his ears. Blood whorled in the delicate orifice and felt a prickle, uncomfortable in the New York heat. He let the pause run on for a few more seconds, before interrupting the muteness.

'Lindsey?'

'I- Mac, I don't know... No, wait. Shush, please,' he heard a tense edge to her voice he rarely experienced. 'Girls, go ...' words were muffled, and he couldn't make out the utterances in between. '... don't... out until I ... no, now ...I-'

Silence.


End file.
